It happens quietly.

Not all at once. Not dramatically.

You’re standing outside his place after dinner, the night cool and unhurried. You’ve been there before, always leaving at the same careful distance. Tonight feels no different—until it does.

You turn to say goodbye, already preparing yourself for the familiar ache of almost.

“Stay,” Daniel says.

The word surprises both of you.

He looks at you then—not guarded, not calculating years or consequences—just honest. Tired of resisting something that has already chosen him.

“I’ve been afraid,” he admits, voice low. “Afraid that wanting you made me selfish. That loving you meant taking something I shouldn’t.”

You don’t interrupt. You never do.

“But holding back hasn’t protected either of us,” he continues. “It’s only made me distant. And I don’t want to be distant from you anymore.”

Your heart pounds, but you stay still. You give him the space to choose.

Daniel steps closer. Not rushing. Not hesitating.

“I can’t promise perfection,” he says. “But I can promise presence. If you’re here… I want to be fully here too.”

You swallow. “I never asked you to be anything else.”

That’s when he reaches for you—slow, deliberate. His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there, like it’s been waiting weeks for permission.

When he kisses you, it’s not desperate. It’s careful. Certain. A decision finally made.

You feel it immediately—the difference.

No pulling away. No pause halfway through. No fear in the touch.

Just warmth. Just intention.

When you rest your forehead against his, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

“I’m done pretending this doesn’t matter,” he says.

You smile softly. “Good. Because it does.”

And this time, when you stay, he doesn’t count the years between you.

He counts the moment.